Chapter 16
I don't know why I'm sitting martyr-straight against the headboard. I guess I'm pretending to be a statue, with a lot of cleavage. Which I'm actively trying to hide by crossing my arms. Which—physics—only make worse.
My gaze drifts to his bedside table to look for a watch, and see how long I've been here, but there's only hand cream, which sends my mind somewhere it shouldn't. Because it's a hand cream, and I'm picturing... other uses.
At least Ben's having a good time.
He's sprawling beside me with that usual ease, one arm behind his head, the other flicking my knee exactly where it jumps.
Until I've had enough, so I move it away with a groan.
He looks up at me, eyes falling right where they shouldn't, and he bites his cheek. "Relax, Emma. The bed won't eat you, and neither will I—" His hand squeezes my knee again. "Unless you ask nicely."
I roll my eyes like he's annoying the heck out of me, which he sort of is and sort of isn't, and manage to unclench myself. My muscles instantly thank me.
"So? What's your next book about?" he asks, sounding genuinely curious.
"I'm not telling you."
He arches a brow. "Seriously? I should own like thirty percent of your royalties. For an emotional support fee."
"Thirty percent?! Please. You're doing just fine without my trauma money."
"It's not about fine. It's about fair. I was your first fan. So?"
"This one's different," I say, shaking my head. "No idea where it's going yet. I'll tell you when I have something."
He sits up. The bed's technically a queen, but he chooses the space right next to me, elbow grazing mine.
"Is it about me again?" he asks.
Somehow, I manage to not blink, not give anything away. "Where'd you get that idea? You're not the only heart-breaker in the world, you know."
He watches me, intrigued. "Was I? Your heart-breaker?"
I shoot him a look. "You're annoying, you know that?"
Instead of answering he tips his face to the ceiling and his voice comes out low and sturdy: "There are moments that split your life in two. This—this is one of them."
I whip my head to him. "That's mine."
He nods. "I've read all your books."
Wait? My two flops? Do I celebrate or die of embarrassment?
"So you do read?" I ask suspiciously. "Didn't take you for a romance reader."
He pulls a face. "Hell no. I stand by what I said. After medicine, I'll never touch another book." He taps on my temple. "But I read you."
I meet his eyes, completely thrown. "But... why?"
The mood in his face goes from playful to thoughtful in a second.
"Maybe because I couldn't reach you and wanted to see how you're doing. If you sleep better," he says then.
I blink at him. This man. This man, who swore to never read anything again, read a thousand pages of mine as a way to reach me since I've shut him out.
Maybe... maybe that's the kindest thing anyone's ever done for me.
"I liked all of them," he adds. "The reviews for your last one were wrong."
I smirk bitterly. "It flopped for a reason."
"No. They didn't read between the lines," he insists, unexpectedly firm. "Can't blame them. They don't know you."
I nudge him with my chin. "Go on, keep patching up my fragile ego."
It's meant as a throw-away joke but instead of laughing, he shifts on the bed, suddenly too intent.
"Okay. Your books read like poetry. Not only i the rhythm, but in the way you bury your feelings into metaphors.
I think you hope people miss them, but at the same time, I think you hope they don't. You don't hide in your stories the way you do everywhere else and I like that. But that's not the part that got me..."
"What is?" My voice comes out thin.
A beat while he runs absentminded circles on the side of my pillow.
"The way you write about love. I can tell you don't want ordinary. You want to drown in someone's hunger, be left raw. Not some storybook romance. You want to be torn apart." He looks up then, and his eyes burn into mine. "It's like you love the way I do."
My face instantly flushes hotter. Heart? Reassembled.
Over the years, I've had some amazing reviews, even awards, but none of it comes close to Ben saying we speak the same love language.
"Wow. Thanks," I say, voice barely there.
A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and just as the bass outside slows to a hum, his face goes serious. "But if you ask me, you don't sleep any better."
Translation: You're restless. Because you think about me late at night. Because I know you do.
And I hate that he's right and that I can't tell him my body chose him in sleep and about that wet dream. But I can't. Can't.
"It's late. You must be tired. I'll go," I whisper and shift toward the edge of the bed, but before I can slip away, his hand catches my wrist and holds it.
"Let them have their fun. Sleep here."
I go still, waiting for him to smirk and say he was kidding, but there's none of that. Just those black eyes, steady on me, proving he meant it.
"Have you lost your mind?"
"Why?" He frowns and shrugs. "We're friends. You've slept over before."
"Friends," I echo.
Sure, we are. I'll always wonder how he is and what he does in that exact moment I happen to think of him.
But friends don't live under your skin three years after they've touched it.
"That was different. We were in a different situation," I remind him, my voice stern.
"We don't have to tell anyone."
He lets the words hang between us.
Does he really expect me to say yes because we can hide it? Or does he know exactly how close I am to breaking every rule I thought I had?
No, Emma. This is not friendly. Do. Not. Pretend. Do. Not. You can't undo this.
Ben tilts his head, watching me for a beat. Then he gets up, leans over, and tugs on my hips, sliding me down slowly, down the linen sheets, down until I'm flat beside him.
"What are you doing?" I whisper, shocked as my pulse stutters.
"Let's sleep," he says, and it doesn't sound like a suggestion, but a command.
"Ben, you know I can't sleep here—"
My protest dies when his arm slides under my neck, hooks around my shoulder, and his finger presses against my lips to quiet me.
"Says who? Mmm?" He challenges me with a cocked brow. "We're both tired. Close your eyes."
To make sure I don't go anywhere, his arm drops across my collarbone, anchoring me to him.
I want to tell him that no moral code allows this, definitely not when both of us are practically naked, but he gives me a warm smile, like this is the most natural place for our bodies to be and asks, "Do you still have the nightmares?"
I clear my throat, silent for a beat, trying to steady my heartbeat. I'm sure he can feel it rattling beneath his touch.
"Sometimes," I say, finally. "You know, when I'm anxious, or bottling too much. Therapist's words."
"Yeah. It's like PTSD." He nods. "Doing the breathing exercises I gave you? And the cold showers?" he asks, already skeptical.
"Hell no. I'd rather die in fire than ice."
We both snort, a flash of old ease.
"But no pills," I add quickly. "I want to handle it myself."
"Good girl. Don't get addicted. The world doesn't need another numb soul," he says, and then—casually, not casually—his foot slides between mine.
I freeze, every inch of me going alert, but I don't have the will to fight Ben anymore. I don't even know if I want to.
Our legs tangle like roots underground and he whispers, breath hot against my ear, "Go to sleep. I'll be your night watch."
I turn my head toward him and whisper, "I bet you're not scared of anything."
"That's not true," he murmurs.
"What scares you?"
"I'll tell you when you tell me what you're writing."
A head shake is all he gets.
He smirks. "You're such a pain in the ass."
I smirk back. "You love me for it."
He exhales a tiny laugh through his nose, eyes dropping to my mouth. "Unfortunately."
His hand finds mine, lifting it gently.
I watch our palms touch as his fingers glide from my fingertips to the base, tracing the faint lines of life and love. The touch is so light it should be harmless, right? But...
"You've got goosebumps," he says.
"So do you," I murmur.
I sink low into the mattress as Ben props himself over me—a wall of heat and muscle pressing me down.
His elbows land by my shoulders as he pins me with his eyes. "Emma, do you want me to kiss you?"
My heart slams so hard against my ribs, I swear it would kick him if he touched there.
Ben's palm slides to the back of my neck, a backup lock he doesn't need. When he looks at me like this, I go dumb—believe that our lips touching will make this messed-up world a better place.
"I do," I whisper and mirror his palm. Then, because I'm a fool: "Just one kiss."
He looks at me like he's not sure whether to laugh at my bluff or reward me for my naivety. "If you believe that."
His thumb grazes the hollow of my upper lip, then drags down to my chin, and slowly pushes against it. "Open up for me."
I blink. What kind of kiss are we talking about?
He smirks. "Don't worry, it's not what you think. I want access when I devour you."
Pulse stuttering, I part my lips as wide as he guides me. It's a first, offering my entire throat for a kiss.
Ben hovers his lips above mine, caging me inside him, his exhale slipping into my mouth. "I kissed you only once, but just so you know, you've been my favorite flavor... so you might have to tame me before I go too reckless."
I swallow hard. We're really doing this...
First, he only teases me—his tongue dips into my mouth, skimming the very edge of mine.
It's warm and tastes of his mints, his sweet breath and him.
I gasp into his mouth, instantly remembering our only kiss. I could eat from this man's mouth and never get full.
Ben seals his lips over mine and pushes his tongue all the way to the back of my throat, circling there, humming roughly, like he wants to echo through all my bones. And suddenly I'm fire, ready to burn this tent down.
"God, I missed you—" It slips before I can catch it.